Baby for the Bosshole Page 6

  Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s going to quit worrying or approve of my dates. He thinks I can do a hundred times better than the guys I’ve been with. Most men simply are not good enough for his little girl. He even said I’m dating down, and I really should date up. Aim high. Just like I aimed high when I applied to Harvard, went for Goldman Sachs and entered Wharton.

  He doesn’t buy my explanation that men aren’t like schools and jobs. Having the stability of a family and the devotion of a man who loves me above all else is something Dad has always wanted for me. As far as he’s concerned, I can have that with the Harvards and Whartons of men, not the “averages” I’ve been “settling for.”

  Whatever. I run the wipe over my face, then take a quick shower to wash off the sweat and…other gunk. Then I put on a nightshirt and fall into bed, kill the bedside lamp and hug my teddy bear. Okumasama, who was given a butchered Japanese name because I was too young and didn’t know any better.

  One sheep… Two sheep…

  My eyelids grow heavy. I close my eyes and sigh softly…

  “Amy…”

  The guttural moan tickles my senses. I imagine the scene…

  Emmett. Reclining on a leather couch in his office. His cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed with desire.

  “Amy…” He can barely get the word out amid his rough, uneven breathing.

  His hand fists around his cock. His shirt sleeves are rolled; tendons flex under the taut skin. The muscles in his jaw bunch as he inhales, his hand moving faster. The buttons on his shirt are undone, revealing his gorgeous chest, which rapidly rises and falls.

  I should be scandalized. Outraged. But I feel neither. He’s raw and hedonistic as he chases his pleasure, my name nothing more than a soft moan tearing from his chest.

  I walk into his office, his domain, licking suddenly dry lips. I can’t look away from the tableau before me—lusty and sensual.

  Our gazes collide. His mouth parts and his eyes darken.

  A hot tingling sensation starts in my chest, making my nipples bead, and streaks down my torso. A whimper rises, and I press my lips together. But when the sensation ends at my clit, I can’t contain the sound anymore. The flesh between my legs slickens.

  “You’re supposed to work in your office.” I try for a reprimand, but my voice is too uneven and husky to be taken seriously.

  “Work hard, play hard.” He winks.

  “Is that the rule?” I keep my gaze on his, then deliberately reach under my skirt and pull my underwear down my legs.

  The hand around his shaft stops moving, but the muscles in his forearm quiver. I slowly skim my hands over my breasts, down my torso. The touch is light through my clothes. I shouldn’t feel much, but hot shivers shimmy through me anyway. It’s Emmett who’s amplifying my pleasure, his increasingly rough breathing urging me to push boundaries.

  “Do you want to touch me?” I whisper, mischief in my tone and a dare in my stare. The fact that I can sound like that surprises me. I’m never like this in bed.

  “Yes.” His eyes are pools of jet. “I wanted to touch you the second we met.”

  Desire heats my face. The intensity of his need is exciting, but also makes me a little apprehensive. I swallow my nerves, then stiffen my legs to stop from squirming. He’s still on his back and I’m the one standing over him. I’m in charge. In control.

  “I almost didn’t hire you because you’re too hot.”

  I laugh softly. “But I’m here now anyway. Do you often touch yourself thinking of me?”

  “Always. I do it fantasizing about you using me for your pleasure.”

  Then he whispers all the things he imagines I’m doing to him and he’s doing to me, every time he grabs his greedy dick. Filthy, dirty, completely inappropriate. The kind of things that would make HR scream in horror. The kind of things that make me even wetter.

  My head spins with the raw words pouring out of him. He reaches for me, but I pull away playfully. I bend over his desk, making sure he has a view of my uptilted pelvis and ass. I slide my hand under my skirt—hidden from view, but he knows where it’s going—and push my fingers into myself, pretending they’re Emmett’s thick, hard cock. I tell him what I’m doing, while sliding my other hand under my top, pushing the bra out of the way and cupping my breast.

  I moan loudly, letting him know how good I’m feeling with the fingers inside me. Emmett’s eyes are glued to what he can’t actually see as he abruptly pumps his fist hard and fast. He fights for breath, and his teeth clench.

  My own orgasm builds. I rein it back, wanting to see him succumb to pleasure first—

  A white stream shoots out of his penis, landing wetly across his chest and belly. His entire body shakes uncontrollably with the aftermath, and the sight makes me feel powerful, in charge and sexy as hell.

  The orgasm I’ve been holding at bay smashes past my control and booms through me, exploding like a bomb. My eyes squeezed shut, I twist and scream. Suddenly Emmett is behind me, flipping my skirt up and pulling my hand from between my thighs as he pushes himself into my slick depths.

  He grabs my hips, his hands incredibly strong. I cover my mouth to contain a shriek as he s-l-o-w-l-y pumps in and out a couple of times, but it’s no use. I struggle to breathe, then grind against him. I’m going to die if he doesn’t—

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  Somewhere something keeps buzzing. Emmett curses.

  I scrunch my face briefly, then open my eyes and look at the dim ceiling. Light is slicing through the gaps between the curtains. What the…?

  I blink as reality reasserts itself. Bedroom. My own bed.

  Home.

  Okay. Good. Thank God I didn’t do anything inappropriate with Emmett again. Still… What kind of dream was that?

  Nothing good, I decide. See the boss with his dick out, have a quickie with him and I’m having dreams with a whole new triple-X scenario? Good lord. He’s hot, and the orgasm was phenomenal, but really? This is not going to help me figure out how to deal with him when we see each other again.

  I fumble on the nightstand for my phone. The screen says two past ten a.m. And I have a few texts from Emmett.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  I sit up, feeling like a kid who got caught with her hand in a cookie jar. There’s no way Emmett could know what kind of dream I had, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Besides, now that my head and sanity aren’t mired in the thick sludge of sleep deprivation and the peaks and troughs of blood sugar and caffeine, I’m beginning to see how reckless I was last night. I grabbed Emmett Lasker and kissed him. And not just a peck, but with a tongue down his throat!

  Then I had his incredible dick in my very wet vagina.

  I bury my face in my hands. I am so screwed.

  He could be texting to fire me. The best I can hope for is for him to tell me he’s going to call a meeting with HR to “discuss my behavior.” I don’t know if lack of sleep will be a valid defense. I should consult a lawyer specializing in HR matters.

  But first, I should check the texts. Dread twisting my gut into pretzels, I swipe my phone.

  –Emmett: We need to wrap up the model. I’m busy in the morning and early afternoon so let’s meet at 4:30 to discuss.

  “I can’t” is not an option here. I read on.

  –Emmett: Also send me all the references and data on the commodity and labor pricing so I can review those before our discussion.

  –Emmett: You don’t have to send the model early, but it should be ready for our meeting.

  Huh? That’s it? Not even a single word about what happened?

  I wait for more texts, but…

  My phone stays silent.

  I drop my head back on the pillow with mixed emotions. Maybe he’s decided to call it even. I mean, he was masturbating in the office. Besides, Emmett’s been in finance for a long time. The man knows how to keep his mouth shut when necessary, and what happened between us last night isn’t something you can talk about at dinner. Especially since it all started with his getting caught doing something inappropriate. There’s a reason no scandal involving Emmett Lasker exists. The man is discreet.

  Also, he doesn’t know that I had a hyper-weird dream fueled by what happened last night. Nor that I’m uncomfortably wet and swollen between my legs after it. Most importantly, he has no clue I’m still feeling this awkward sexual frustration. Or the deep, aching emptiness that some perverted part of me wishes he could ease.

  God, this is messed up. I have to see Emmett in less than seven hours.

  My optimistic side says that it isn’t that awful that I want to have sex with him again, even if I do feel like an idiot desperate for another bite of the forbidden fruit. After all, unlike men, if women have some clothes on there aren’t any glaringly obvious physical reactions to indicate sexual arousal. So I just have to act calm and collected. As a matter of fact, he’ll never find out I got wet dreaming about him because I’m going to wash that off right now.

  Plus—and this is the most important thing—in less than eight weeks I won’t be working for him anymore. All I need to survive seven weeks and six days is a little extra brazenness and shamelessness. If Emmett can arm himself like that when he’s caught in a scandalous situation, so can I.

  Today is a new day. And like I decided earlier, everything that happened after eleven fifty-nine p.m. didn’t happen.

  Chapter Seven

  Emmett

  It’s after ten a.m., so Amy should be up by now. I fire off three texts to her while enjoying my first cup of coffee. I hope she’s realized that she can’t avoid me forever. She reports to me and no one else.

  Sleep—if she got any after our awesome bout; she might’ve writhed in her bed all night wanting more—should help her reason logically enough to recognize the inevitability. She looked like she’d take about two seconds to conk out. That’s the only explanation for why she ran like her skirt was on fire instead of cuddling with me. If she’d given me a moment, I would’ve turned the damned phone off so we could enjoy each other in peace. So I could lose myself in that addictive flavor of hers, the mesmerizing scent of her citrus body wash and her skin.

  But no… She had to run. And who knew the woman could move so fast? By the time I got to my feet, pulled my pants up and made my way out the office to talk to her, she was already gone. I loitered for a few minutes at the elevator bank until it dawned on me she wasn’t going to show, especially after a car came and went. And her desk was completely clean, confirming my suspicion.

  Really annoying. Unfortunate, too. I wanted to take her to a late-night diner near the office that serves an absolutely awesome breakfast around the clock. Then talk about what happened like adults.

  I’d also like to propose we continue to enjoy ourselves like adults. Only with a little more preparation. I had to pull out, since I didn’t have a condom. Having sex unprepared isn’t something I do, but when she was on me, I lost control. Being inside her felt more important than taking my next breath.

  And it was hotter than my dirtiest fantasy. My cock’s already hard with the memory of her clenching around it, hot and slick.

  I shouldn’t be too disappointed that we didn’t get to have a talk about the future. I got to keep her thong, which she left behind in her rush. It’s a hot black lacy item, and I’m a little sad I didn’t really get to see her in it.

  But there will be other chances. I’ll see her again at four thirty. Earlier than that would be better, but I have a brunch with my brothers. But maybe the timing will work out for the best. I don’t want to appear overeager or let her know I relived our hot encounter all night long…even if my dick has been hard for ten hours now.

  The main strategy here is to play things cool and make her want to do it again, not have her think I’m obsessed with her, even though I am. Getting a taste of her last night only intensified my hunger.

  Since I’m done texting Amy, I check the Pulse feed. And immediately burst out laughing.

  Rick on Romance

  Hey hey hey, what’s up, Romancers? I know you guys have been waiting for the updates from my half-anniversary trip to surprise my girl. But due to some unfortunate technical difficulties, I wasn’t able to film our drive to Tahoe.

  “Technical difficulties”? Is that what influencers call getting their plans canceled these days?

  I’m working on them right now to ensure you get a full view of how the trip goes as much as possible, so you too can surprise and treat your girl. Like always, I’m here to make a difference in your lives and would never leave you hanging.

  Working on them. I laugh softly at the ridiculous lie.

  What’s he going to do? Charter a helicopter to fly Amy to Lake Tahoe after I’m done discussing the model with her? Ha!

  He shouldn’t call himself her boyfriend. Or act like he has any claim on her. He hasn’t earned the right, even if Amy did put him in the boyfriend category.

  Besides, from the utterly dazed look on her gorgeous face when she came last night, Rick must be terrible in bed. You don’t have to be old to suffer from ED.

  Amy got to sample what I have to offer. So after we go over the model, I plan to talk to her about our future. Which, number one, involves dumping Rick, if she hasn’t decided to do that already. If it weren’t for the fact that I kept missing the windows of opportunity when Amy was free, I would’ve already shown her how the man in her life ought to treat her.

  I glance at the comments on Rick’s Pulse update, then shake my head at all the you’ll get it done, bros and we’re behind yous. If they only knew what a loser this guy is…!

  I put my empty mug in the sink and drive to Huxley’s mansion. My brother bought it a couple of years back, but didn’t move in until last week because he wanted extensive remodeling done on the first two floors and the garden. He’s particular about what he wants, and he doesn’t like to settle. That’s what makes him good at his job as an ad exec.

  When I get to the mansion, I have to admit the upgrades look good. The garden’s been ripped apart and redone with plants that won’t guzzle up water. Huxley also put in a stone garden, the type he fell in love with during a trip to Japan five years ago. The swimming pool is wide and large, although I don’t see the point of having one on the ground when there’s one on the rooftop. His helicopter sits on the helipad—another addition.

  I walk inside and note the walls have been covered with elegant and tastefully expensive textured wallpaper. The ceilings in different rooms have their own murals, and the living room features stained-glass windows. All in all, the place drips with a sensual opulence that demands to be noticed and admired while somehow avoiding a descent into vulgarity. But then, that’s Huxley’s forte. It’s what makes his clients love him. Grant and I often hire his firm for the ventures GrantEm funds when they’re ready to go public.

  Some might call it nepotism. I call it hiring the best. If there’s somebody who can do better than Huxley, I’m all for signing a contract with them.

  My six brothers are already in the dining room. We got our dark hair and square jaws from our father—Ted Lasker. But that’s where our facial similarities end. Which makes sense, since we have seven different mothers. On top of that, we’re only four months apart in age, me being the oldest and Nicholas the youngest. Huxley is the second oldest, having been born three weeks after me.

  A lot of people wonder how the hell something like this could happen, but it’s quite simple:

  Vasectomy fail.

  During those months, Dad was sowing his wild oats with every young, willing woman he could find. And being a movie producer, he’s always been able to find a lot. It’s actually kind of surprising that he only impregnated seven of them. Statistical probability says there should’ve been more.

  The rumor is that he tried to sue the doctor who performed the vasectomy, even though the man offered a redo for free. I don’t blame Dad. I wouldn’t go back to a doc who screwed up the first time, even for a freebie. Dad and I are similar in that regard—we prefer efficiency and competence over cost.

  Since the second vasectomy, Dad hasn’t fathered another child. He has instructed his assistants to select and send appropriate birthday and Christmas gifts to our moms, but he doesn’t spend much time with any of them, since he’s a busy man.

  Trashy tabloid writers occasionally try to trip him up by asking which woman gave him which son. But faced with an impending offspring emergency, Dad came up with a plan: he named us after the women who bore us. My mother’s name is Emma. Huxley’s mother’s last name is Huxley. Grant and Griffin are named for the same reason. Noah and Nicholas got their names because of their moms, Nora and Nicole. Sebastian is the only exception—his mother is a disowned heiress to the Sebastian Jewelry fortune.

  Typical Ted Lasker efficiency. And naming us in that fashion saves him the potential embarrassment of not pairing us with the right mothers because he couldn’t bother to actually remember anything about his sons. It’s never occurred to him how self-centered and thoughtless that is. Other people’s feelings are about as important to him as a penny is to a billionaire, even if those people happen to be his own children.

  Huxley’s dining room is huge, with a table big enough to host a large dinner party. Catered brunch food is spread out—crispy bacon, sausages, eggs benedict, French toast, pancakes and more. Huxley is talented in many things, but he can’t cook. Actually, none of us really cooks. I’m about the best because I can fry eggs without setting the pan on fire. It’s something Mom forced on me, and which I learned only with reluctance.

  Housekeepers exist for a reason. I pay mine to do things for me that I don’t want to do myself. It’s a much more efficient use of time. And it keeps her gainfully employed with a good salary and benefits.

  “Look who’s here!” Huxley says, lifting his champagne glass. His blue eyes are sharp enough to cut, and he has a tongue mean enough to flay you mercilessly. Although he isn’t the oldest, he takes being the second oldest seriously. Which means he’s a bossy asshole.